Late Winter's Midday Snow

There is no maneuvering in time
no rush to the front of the future
looming large in the next moment
or perhaps a dream of fright-less hope
or drifting backwards to gone days
as sweet or bitter as those might be.

Just now, the midday
with its great gray belly of clouds
Hung distended across the sky
wanting in their pregnancy to release
the water that they bear
and in the cold moment of urgency
let loose a deluge
of broad ragged flakes
which thrust down with great urgency,
a down pour
like a flooding river
fat flakes but without a swirl
and backed by pine or
budded branch
they fly headlong
across the wood.

Birds struggle bent-backed
as they cross the path
of falling flakes
in search of seeds soon
buried by this late winter's storm,
which for the moment
changes courses
from passive
to active
and runs the imagination
'round circles edge.

A Springtime Story and King of the Maples

A Springtime Story

Hidden and but subtly told
your springtime story does unfold,
A rare feat of pure alchemy
is there for those who care to see.

By eating seeds of whisker size
a transformation before the eyes,
Of feathers muted black and gray
turning gold a bit each day,
Then finally your true colors show
a feast of beauty for all to know.

****

King of the Maples

On some fine day soon
the sun will stream down
a wedge of light
thrust through the gray bellied clouds
and pour upon your golden shoulders
and crown you king of the maples
amidst the red bud regalia
where you sometimes hold court.

You do not fear to share yourself
among us commoners
and distribute your riches almost carelessly
but none the less generously
and by doing so
you sometimes save a soul or two.

For you have labored
in fields afar
and battled against the same hard foes
and in your soft mannered victory
you have truly turned to gold.

No School Monday

Let's play hooky

And squirm like the fish we are

off the barb

so imposed or

self imposed

And have run-away

if just for a day?

from the layers of crap

Assumed nobly

and/or unwittingly

until they reshaped us

into some barely recognizable form

the mirror refuses to acknowledge

like a comb-over

like clownish make-up

like a ski mask

like a shroud.


Yes let's take a vacation

from ourselves

and visit with the friend

we used to be

and dust him off

and watch him

from across the room.


Maybe, if we invite him

he will come to school

tomorrow.

Wouldn't that be such a fine day?

Feeble Tools

They are such feeble tools
And vulnerable,
When once laid down
And played in place
They should stand…
But instead they crumble
And falter.
One moment they are ablaze
With life elemental,
And then the next
Cold ash on hard ground.

Yet I reach for them
To try to build
My structure.
Word by word
A modest temple
A simple prayer
Stitched together
That I might gain a foothold
And perhaps return to draw more deeply.

Even now they work
But with the dullest edge
Not whet
Not stropped
They make a rough border
They cut so poorly
That I need to put them down,
Set them aside
And just listen.

It is there
In the quiet,
Fundamental and well written.

It is there,
Just be still and listen
Ever so silently,

Listen.

Butter Bean Soup

Butter beans…
they look of lima beans, gag beans once upon a time,
But now good…
(how does that happen?!)
so now they are dropped into the cart
a jury of one has rendered its verdict.

"Chop fine, carrots, celery and onions"
The knife tills its way through…
"Does this look right?"
“I’m going to use chicken broth instead of water
do you mind?”
“It says ‘basil’ but there was none fresh at the store,
perhaps I will use the frozen cilantro?”

The fish splash in the nearby tank.

And “salt to taste”
Some like more than I,
but I cast the tie breaking vote:
1-0.

The pot simmers
and soup silently cooks
the goodness of many
textures and tastes
creates and brews something new.

I could eat it right out of the pot,
who cares?
No, place a clean bowl and spoon
Napkin and glass,
a table for one,
Lets have some dignity and decorum.

Cold January

It is below zero this morning
we are dead smack in the middle of January
Janus is standing in my doorway
and arctic cold slides in
testing my toes
finding the cracks in my armor
exposing the inevitable vulnerability

The birds arrive at first light
and refuel
eating seed and suet with gusto
driving away the deep chill
of nights on maple perches
nothing moves them then
as they slip into metabolic slumbers
not even the sudden shot and shudder
of frozen sap will snap them awake
they need to be that still
that simple
to survive

Yet now with the dawn
they flurry to the feeder
and fill their bills
joyfully refueling
building the grams of fat
necessary to make it through
the next cold January night
such are their lives
such is our plight